I Never Apologized
by CrazyHat
Summary: An excess of time is a poison to those grieving, filling their empty thoughts with what-ifs and what-could be's. And Specialist Weaver felt every second of it was warranted, a punishment for failing to protect his daughter.
1. Chapter 1

"The boy's wasting away in the company of those ingrates, General."

Cordovin spat out an ugly curse, trained muscles unconsciously tensing as she strengthened the grip held behind her back. The woman stood rigid, blankly staring at an empty space that occupied the nearest wall before subtly training her eyes on the moving figure pacing just before her. The General—_her General—_had his arms crossed in thought, a glistening aura of unquestionable authority rippling off his bulky frame. His coattails whipped around him, nimbly passing over the trail of sizable indents that followed in his focused wake.

"He needs time," General Ironwood muttered.

His muffled voice peeked out from folds of his high-strung collar. He kept his voice plain, no great overture to explain his reasoning. Absently nodding his head, he resumed his machine-like stride without sparing a proper glance to Specialist Cordovin. With each step, the wooden boards crackled under Ironwood's weight, the steady rap of his steel-toed leather boots filling the chambers with a shallow and infuriating sense of finality.

If it were any other time, Cordovin would've shrunk back, angrily chiding herself for the gall of questioning the man who knew what was best for Atlas. This time though, with what was at stake, she refused to budge—even if it meant a string of curses and demotions being heralded toward her by the one person she respected above all others.

Her pupil deserved better than a half-ass attempt at saving him.

"For how long?" She pressed forward, straining her fragile voice into a fine whisper. "With respect, it's been three months already. The boy has had his time to grieve."

She hated every syllable of what she forced herself to say. Hated how callous her words sounded, how cruel she must've looked when she spat upon her student's grief by trivializing his suffering. In front of General Ironwood, the man whom she silently pledged to herself to serve, she became keenly aware of the ugliness that boiled within her heart.

But despite that, she didn't relent.

Don't dare let the boy take this chance to drown himself in his grief, distancing himself from the people who cared about him. Pester him with the familiar voices that taught him the ins and outs of life, suffocate him with love,…do anything to show him that things, no matter how bleak they were, would pass.

There would be a time for…crying. It just wasn't now. Save the fireworks for when Weaver comes back home. Make the idiot feel bad for making this old woman spill her tears.

A sharp twinge of pain colored her mouth, canines biting into her chapped lips.

She couldn't afford to lose herself now, not when she still had a chance in convincing Ironwood. So she endured it, stuffing the ragged sobs back down her throat and reined in her shaky voice. Someone had to make Ironwood see reason—to see that what the boy needed wasn't space, but support.

Shamelessly casting aside her pride as a proud Soldier of Atlas, she hurled unwarranted and unasked pleas onto her superior, desperate to make this last gambit end in her student's favor. And although she didn't have to the power to bring her student back to the warmth of Atlas' heartland, she did have an opportunity in convincing the person who did. Breaking free from the decades of discipline the military had methodically instilled in her, Specialist Cordovin clutched her aching chest, staring desperately at the officer who had suddenly stilled his pacing.

"His home is _here!"_

She raised her voice to a shrill wail, succeeding for the first time in capturing the General's attention.

Specialist Cordovin knew how roads like this often ended, watching helpless as the soldiers she raised throughout her years crumble upon the weight of their grief. No one knew better than her knew the dangers of when soldiers had too much time to spare.

An excess of time was a poison to those grieving, filling their empty thoughts with what-ifs and what-could be's. No,…what the boy needed right now was to busy himself. To throw himself into his work and spend every waking minute of his time into accomplishing something productive. It didn't have to be anything grand; it just had to distract him long enough until he was ready to face his demons.

She wouldn't let Weaver end up as a statistic, joining the fallen ranks of soldiers who had lost their way. She refused that kind of life for him, vehemently fighting against the General's wishes in keeping him on the edges of Atlas' borders instead of having him return to the heartland of his kingdom.

What point was there in keeping someone who would lead the next generation of Atlas' finest holed up in some decrepit mine filled with failures and Faunus rejects?

Just as General Ironwood was about to respond, a deafening knock came at the door. The room stilled for a moment before Ironwood's firm voice broke through the chilling silence.

"Not now," he grumbled out. Like clockwork he resumed his robotic pace…only to get interrupted by a second knock. The door clicked open, a freshly commissioned officer hesitantly spilling out from the open crack.

Filling his body with air, the lieutenant blurted out newly confirmed intel. "Mine A119 has been attacked, General Ironwood."

And in an instant, Specialist Cordovin's world came tumbling down.

—

A fine red mist erupted from the man's hands, a thick squelch heard even among the frenzied gunfire. The fractured Grimm mask that came from his hands landed with a dull thud, easily splintering into unrecognizable pieces as a booted foot grounded the beastly man-made object against the dirt.

For a moment the gunfire's tense whistling stopped, the mechanical humming of many rifles drowning down to a low hum. Mine A119's monotonous routine of dust mining had been disrupted, a lull in the violence suddenly taking hold of the volatile affair.

One-by-one, figures dressed in thin sheets of darkened clothing poked their heads out from the shadows, mesmerized by the gory display of brutality. They watched from behind the bulging rocks they used as cover, eyes widening in disbelief at how casual the dismissal of one of their own had been.

Further within the mine, behind the oblivious man's back, a high-pitched voice had taken advantage of the brief pause and had sickened out a chilling scream.

"_DADDY!" _

He could hear a wild yearning in the familiar voice, one that had sliced through his very core, skewering him with a bittersweet sense of nostalgia that he'd forever wish he could return to. But Weaver didn't dare turn his head, not because doing so would leave him exposed to the numerous foes knocking at his doorstep, but because he was all too familiar of the petty tricks his mind would play on him.

Just a figment of his imagination…that's all it was.

The air exploded, bloodcurdling screams reverberating and echoing in the murky space Major Weaver had made his own. The hysteria grew as the band of Atlas' rejects replied, gleefully rising to the occasion by submerging themselves further into the madness that had overtaken Mine A119.

It didn't matter that those who came to this decrepit mine were the fledglings of the notorious terrorist organization, young naive hopefuls who were too eager and unprepared to help their own. Nor did it matter that the reason for their appearance was to rescue the Faunus imprisoned in this very mine, forced to work long hours in hazardous conditions for the benefit of a Kingdom that regarded them as annoyances.

And by the end of it, staring past the piled mounds of what used to be hopeful White Fang vigilantes, was a man who was haunted by his daughter's death.

Carefully stuffing the folded picture of Elra into his breast pocket, Major Weaver, a decorated Specialist, took off into into the blizzard.


	2. Chapter 2

"What are you doing here?" From behind the door, Riel whispered, her trembling voice covered with the slightest pressure she had over her throat.

"I came to talk." Weaver held his hand to the door, absently tracing the edges of the door's peephole. Ever since he made his departure from Mine A119, he had thought to this moment, dreading for the inevitable outcome of when he would confront his failings.

His failure as a father.

His failure as a husband.

And his failure as the person he'd always thought he was.

It was as if, in this very moment, the effects of what he had chosen and had chosen for him had come crashing down, striking him with the full force of his shortcomings.

And it hurt so very much.

Weaver scrunched up his hand into a fist, feeling the painful tear of skin as his nails bore into his flesh. He rubbed his head against the door, matted hair pooling around the center of wooden frame.

What could he say to make things right? What magical words would help Riel to see that he was hurting—to see that he didn't know how to deal with his feelings so he kept them buried, distancing himself from everything and anything that reminded him of what he had lost. Of wha he had failed to protect.

The answer was as simple as it was devastating. There was nothing he could do to make Riel forgive him; and rightly so because what he had done to the woman he loved was as cowardly as it was pathetic.

Tense seconds passed by, the silence pinning needles into his heart until one final squeal of desperation struggled free from his clogged throat.

"Please."

A hand came down on his back, the light and gentle touch sparking a blazing fire within him—an intense yearning to see things through to the end.

"Please. Please. Please. Riel, please." A deep weakness washed over Weaver, his mind and body spent. He leaned against the door, his weight pushed up against the immovable object and breathed in several shallow breaths of air.

It was for the first time since stepping out the mines that he was reminded of the blistering cold Atlas called its own.

When the door suddenly creaked open, Weaver stumbling forward yet barely catching himself, a pair of turquoise eyes peeked out from the small, dimly lit gap and peered skeptically up at him.

There were so many things Riel wanted to say—so many things she promised herself that she would say if he ever had to nerve to appear before her again, but she could only settle with a smoldering gaze as she hid behind the woden door.

Reality was often cruel like that.

"Why now? It's been years." She bit into her lip, teeth plunging their fine canine edge deep into her rosy skin. Her tensed hand gripped the door's knob, keeping the small opening from daring to pry even further open. She wouldn't do Weaver any favors and make it easier for him to storm back into her life.

"Because I—"

In a moment of fury, Riel pushed the door open, her lavender hair whipping around her bitter expression. She took her hands into a fist, dragging them painfully to her sides as she heatedly stared at Weaver's chest—unable to stomach the sight of her husband's face. "You left us." Weaver didn't so much as say a word to Riel when he left. He just up and disappeared.. Vanished into the wind on some vague military assignment that General Ironwood hadn't cared to tell her…hadn't been man enough to tell her the truth about.

That she had been abandoned.

That, no matter how much she wished to piece back the life she and her husband had together, she would forever be alone. That, in the eyes of everyone she knew, she was defective.

Unable to keep her daughter safe or keep her husband interested.

Who would want a woman like her?

"Left me." She shook her head, violently closing her eyes as she recounted the days and nights she was forced to muddled through alone and aimlessly after her daughter's death. How could he do that? Just throw away all the memories of their life together—of the ones she knew he cherished of Elra.

Just because it was painful didn't give him the right or the excuse to turn his back on the one person that loved him right until the end.

What sort of man did she really say "I do" to?

Weaver stumbled backward as if struck, a shameful look crossing his face. The bags under his eyes seemed more pronounced, wrinkles telling a higher age than he was. "Riel, I—". His voice came out as choppy, a current of dwelling emotions striking his vocal cords.

Riel's petite body began to shake, the bubbling emotions lingering within her heart finally consuming her crumbling self. "You don't get to do this. Don't get to act like you care." Her hands leapt forward, chipped and ill-maintained nails snaking around her husband's collar. She pulled, obliterating the difference between Weaver's towering frame and hers.

"Still got your legs wrapped around the Atlas dream, Riel?"

A scathing voice tore Riel's eyes from the man who had abandoned her. From the shadows, a slim figure dressed in a loose-fitted black jacket emerged. Her hips hugging the plain wall, head lazily turned towards the woman who spared no expense in slicing into her childhood friend. Even though Weaver had asked her to be quiet, to busy herself for the few minutes while he made his peace, or at least attempted to, she had no business in keeping to the sidelines while she watched his so-called "wife" eviscerate someone she cared about.

Regardless of what Weaver had explicitly told her, Leah wouldn't tolerate this kind of abuse being flung at her brother-in-arms.

With a goal in mind, she pushed, refusing to capitulate. Her words formed into teeth, gleefully poised and ready to take calculated chunks out of the sobbing woman. "Marrying a promising officer of Atlas—especially at such a young age. I can't even begin to imagine the perks!"

No mercy would be given to the woman who took everything from her.

The interloper ran her calloused hand along her face, feigning contemplation as she took in the shock riding on Riel's face.

"Must be nice having to just twiddle your thumbs back home and wait for a paycheck that you didn't earn." Leah rocketed from the wall, standing tall as she looked down at Riel. As she made her way closer, the sound of her heels clacking in the silent night, Riel's eyes began to dart from the two who had suddenly walked back into her life.

Her breath became harsher, a raspy undertone fleshing into the dreary world.

As if issuing a challenge, Leah plucked Riel's hands off of Weaver's body and spoke a declaration. "Best keep your hands to yourself, Riel. Things won't go like they did in the past." This time, she wouldn't leave his side. Won't be afraid of risking what they have for something they don't—for something more.

She decided to herself a long time ago that if she ever had the chance, she'd stay with Weaver and follow the clueless idiot even if it meant being dragged back down to hell.

"Riel,—" Weaver's mouth began to move, stammering for an appropriate response as he pulled his companion back. Trying anything to keep the situation from becoming worse—from devolving into a mess of madness. But before he could utter one syllable of a hasty apology, Riel put her arms over her chest and, for the first time since their reunion, stared forward. She kept her eyes straight, refusing to back down for even the slightest of a second. Weaver kept still, momentarily matching Riel's intense gaze before subconsciously averting his own to the ground.

"You know, Bryce. I was there." There was a sense of finality to her words, the conclusion to a tragedy that had spanned years and ruined the lives of all parties involved.

Weaver's heart began to beat faster in response to his wife's sudden steel, his face becoming a nauseous shade of red as he dug deeper into the meaning of her words. The inner lining of his throat felt disturbingly shapeless, finding it impossible to force down the sudden and painful lump that became his airway. Whatever it is she meant, Weaver knew it wouldn't be good.

Riel scrunched up her mouth, her chin quivering as she thought back to the innocent girl that laid alone on the cold metal table. She could remember her sluggish footsteps, her frame messily stumbling forward as she kept up with the whitecoated man's odd mechanical pace. Noticed how odd the fluorescent lighting shined that seemed to burn her skin, spreading a thick layer of artificialness that made this situation all the more wrong.

When she walked up, lured by the unnatural light dangling above her, she begged to whatever higher being that cared to listen that Elra—her daughter—wouldn't be the one under the tarp.

_Let it be anyone else. Please._

Her plea rang desperately, every fiber of being wishing death onto another if it meant her little girl would be coming back home. That when the day was over, the three of them would be once again at the dinner table, comfortably snugged in the familiarity of their home. But when the coroner pulled the sheet with a practiced ease, all she could see was the horrifyingly vacant expression on her beautiful baby girl's face.

Still.

Lifeless.

Completely devoid of the bubbly personality she had witness bloom within her daughter.

"Where were you?"

The silence was telling.

Moisture began to drip from her nose, forcing the distraught woman to sniff. Her sight was getting blurry, the people appearing before melding back into the night as if they were never there.

"Take what you want from me. Take what you need from me, Bryce." She didn't have the strength to argue. Or maybe she just found it all the more pointless.

What did it matter in the end? Because when all is said and done, she'd still be right where she was.

In the same apartment where it all began and ended.

Alone.

Nothing mattered anymore.

"And then, when you're finally satisfied, never show your face in front of me again."


End file.
